Learning to fly (requires falling)
by I'm Nova
Summary: Winglock AU. Sherlock is a freak, and he knows it. Then, he meets John... Last installment of the trope bingo challenge from Let's Write Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. I apologize if Dad and Mummy Holmes were given a name in BBC canon. I didn't catch it and invented them. _

Learning to fly (requires falling)

It all started the day that there were no babysitters available. Or perhaps it started much before, when a young girl was reading Asimov. The woman who'd later become the institution known as Mummy Holmes loved maths, and she loved the Foundation cycle.

When years later she decided that she'd endeavour to become Hari Seldon (because the principles of psychohistory should work), she wasn't committed. She was just brilliant enough that people suspected she might succeed, so she was given a place in a government founded research centre who held many more of what ordinary people would call would call mad scientists but that the bureaucrats considered people who might just change the world.

Then came the day when Siger Holmes just _had to _help a friend in need and hence couldn't take care of Mycroft, and they could find no babysitter. So, against all regulations – but what damage could a seven years old child do? - Mummy Holmes brought him to work with her. And there they met.

Mycroft, who decided to sneak around in search of something interesting while Mummy was completely absorbed in her numbers, found the little thing beyond a heavy glass. On the door by that window was written SL47.

It was a baby. A perfect baby, if you asked him, with eyes the most beautifully puzzling shade of blue that Mycroft had ever seen. He was tiny, and had more angles in his body that Mycroft had ever seen in a baby of that age – they were mostly screaming little balls. And he had the softest-looking, fluttery, feathery wings that ever graced a baby bird, but they seemed to fit him very much.

Not that this one wasn't wailing too, like every boy his age seemed to do. Nobody was fussing over him or running to see what the problem was, though, and that was just sad. Mycroft slipped in the room and apparently all the baby wanted was company, or maybe to be tickled, because holding him, tickling him and running reverent hands down down his feathers was all Mycroft did, and the little one was giggling in no time at all. Mycroft parted from him reluctantly, later, but it was time for his afternoon snack and Mummy might notice his absence.

That evening, at dinner, he shocked his parents saying, "You think that I'm lonely. Well, maybe I am. A little. You're thinking about trying for another child. Don't bother. SL47 would do perfectly as a little brother."

"Mike, you shouldn't even know about him," Mummy replied sharply.

"Well, clearly I do. Don't worry, I've not hurt him. I wouldn't," the boy protested vehemently.

"I've not said so, Mikey. Of course I know that. But I can't just bring him home, either. He's propriety of the British government," she tried to explain.

"Well, he didn't seem to care very much for him. He was left to cry. And who is the British government, anyway?" Mycroft asked, already plotting how to convince him. He was good at having people do what he wanted.

"It's complicated," Mummy answered, very unsatisfactorily. And it was left at that.

Until, four years later, when he'd resigned himself to being forever alone in a world of goldfishes, Mycroft got his wish.

Despite the hollow bones and the wings SL47 refused to fly – to levitate, even – which should, according to his creators' theories, have developed together with walking. But it hadn't, and they were tired of waiting and raising someone who would, at best, be fit for a freak show.

They decided to scrap the experiment, though they didn't kill him themselves – nobody on the SL team had the stomach for that. It turned out that nobody at all was ruthless enough for that, and so , with the semi-consent of some people and keeping others carefully unaware, Violet Holmes ensured that Mycroft obtained what he wanted, a few documents were forged and SL47 became officially Sherlock Holmes.

A little boy with a huge secret ("Never, ever, _ever_ let anyone glimpse your wings, Sher; they'll take you away!"), an enthusiastic if overprotective older brother ("_Finally _someone to play Deductions with!"), and loving parents ("You're absolutely _perfect _the way you are, love." "But I can't fly!" "Well, neither can I," Siger smiled).

And psychic classmates, going by the number of _freak _he received despite carefully hiding his...malformation. He never objected against them because that was, you know, true.

"They don't know a thing, Sher, don't worry. They're too idiot to have noticed. They're just envious of you. But believe me, they don't matter."

"I know that, Mycroft," he huffed. Still, he dreamed of becoming a pirate and having mates to have adventures with. For now, Readbeard would have to do.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

When they grew up, things changed. Mycroft set up to become the British Government, though Mum assured him many times that it wasn't a single man, so that if Sherlock ever slipped and got discovered it would be to Mycroft himself that they'd bring the issue. And Mycroft would smile and assure that he already employed his brother for the good of the nation, so nobody needed to fret about it. Sherlock would be protected like this. Safe.

But becoming the government was hard work, and Mycroft had no time at all for his teen little brother, just vague prospects of working together in the future. Sherlock, though, didn't need a boss; he needed an older brother right then. The only reasonable deduction he can make from Mycroft's distance is that his brother only meant to exploit him; that this is why he was taught deductions, even – to be used later on. The resentment grew and festered.

Sherlock started hanging out with the worse crowd he could find in retaliation, and soon he realized something. The junkies were destined to be his best friends. He didn't need to hide his wings with them. They would chalk it out to a weird trip.

And Sherlock's wings, by then, had grown to be eagle-like, big, much less feathery and more jet black, shiny quills. They suffered being constricted inside his clothes all the time, no matter how much tailored they were. His wings wanted to stretch, and so Sherlock did, with his friends now, knowing Mycroft would have a conniption if he found out (well, he wouldn't be the only one to be honest) and loving it all the more for it.

Still, at the start it was an occasional thing. Sherlock still had hopes, no matter how half-formed. But years went past, the hate of his peers for his 'goddamned party trick' and more simply him never relented, and Sherlock grew tired. Caught between hate and despise on one side, Mycroft's pressuring and his parents' still loving, but ultimately uncomprehending attitude at home (how _could_ they understand? They weren't freaks of nature), and the utter dullness of the rest of the world, he upgraded his drugs of choice.

It was an escape, but a trap at the same time. He told himself that he wasn't addicted, that a thing as pedestrian as addiction was beneath him. He could stop anytime. He just didn't wish to, because what was there to be lucid for?

Once he reasoned that if he became normal, he wouldn't be hated anymore. Somehow, this for him translated not into finally getting social cues, but into getting rid of his wings. He nicked a scalpel and a large quantity of morphine from an hospital (he wasn't about to undergo an operation without it; he wasn't _stupid_), he found a empty, mostly clean room in one of his usual haunts and then...HIs memories grew hazy after that point.

He woke up later, in hospital, and feeling like absolute shit. And if that wasn't bad enough, Mycroft – who was _never _there when Sherlock wanted him – was at his bedside. Grumbling about "what were you thinking?" and "how much stupid can you get?" and "you overdosed, Sherlock. You'd be dead if I didn't save you."

"Well, don't save me next time," Sherlock replied bitingly. Or tried to. In reality he mumbled something indistinct, but he was still bone tired.

That episode resulted in a scar on his left shoulder, that nobody would ever see, and Mycroft thinking he could still do whatever he pleased with Sherlock's life attempting to check him in rehab. Multiple times. Sherlock only developed a talent for escapism that would be very useful if he ever found himself in a tight spot.

Why couldn't the git see that Sherlock had nothing to get clean for? Yes, his parents loved him. It wasn't enough to build a life on, and that's what he was supposed to be doing at his age. Find his way. Know what to do with himself.

He found the solution to that problem while searching for more drugs. He stumbled on a crime scene near one of his haunts and solved it for the idiots buzzing around, if only to obtain that they'd leave the premises so his usual dealer could come back. Naturally, he got arrested, because they didn't believe him when he said that he _wasn't _a witness, and insisted that if so he must have been involved in the crime then. A good deed never went unpunished.

Luckily Lestrade gave him a chance to prove the authenticity of his deductive powers. He presented Sherlock with a number of past, solved crime scene photos and Sherlock guessed (sorry; deduced) correctly each time.

When Lestrade tried to release him (and ordered to arrest the man this lanky genius told them was guilty), Sherlock realized that he hadn't itched for drug as long as he'd been there and half pleaded, half demanded, "Get me more cases."

The inspector indulged him, so he solved seven cold cases before leaving the station, grinning for a verbal accord with Lestrade to let him help in more cases still, "As long as you get clean. And stay that way." The inspector recognized addiction when he saw it, but it didn't make him dismiss Sherlock. It was strange.

The young man had just found a way to keep his brain from rotting and be useful. Stop more people from being potentially hurt by helping the police arrest murderers and...anything interesting that'd come their way. Be part of something good, for once.

It was worth a few sacrifices, surely? It was worth getting clean. It would only mean exchanging one form of stimulation for another. It was worth only giving a breather to his wings inside his home and living a life of permanent hiding, too. Just as his family had always suggested.

Sherlock called his brother. "I'm ready," he said softly. Mycroft would understand.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. _

Incredible as it was, Sherlock found someone who enjoyed his company. While sober. And who thought his deductions were amazing, and not hateful. John Watson was a definite keeper. Sherlock wanted him by his side at all times.

Having John as a flatmate – one who cared for him, without having to – was definitely worth hiding his wings 24/7. Or at least until John went to sleep. Even if they were sore being trapped all the time some days. Sherlock really thought he could go on like this indefinitely.

Until the day he couldn't anymore. A murderer had stabbed him in the flank. "I'm okay," he hurried to assure.

"Of course you'll be," John had replied. He clearly meant to take care of the detective. But to get to it properly, Sherlock would have needed to undress, and then his secret would be out, and then...

Panic welled within him during all the trip back home. "Really, John, I've got this," he tried desperately one last time, even if he was still bleeding.

"I'm a doctor, and you need one. So you let me work. Unless you fancy a trip to A&E," John stated firmly.

No way out, then. Sherlock started stripping and tried to steel himself for what was to come. Freak, of course. Monster, probably. And then? John had a considerable talent for synonyms when it suited him. Once unveiled, his wings fluttered once in deep uneasiness, spreading involuntarily.

As always, John surprised him with his behaviour. "Sherlock...are you an angel?" he wondered reverently. The detective could only shake his head mutely.

"Right...healing first. Everything else later. I'm afraid you'll need stitches," the doctor said, scolding himself into action. His hands were sure and caring at the same time. He didn't look spooked or disgusted. Not yet, at least. Sherlock wasn't sure how to react to that, so he didn't. At all.

When John was done, he uttered, "So...not an angel. If you're sure. I mean, I guess you'd know. I know that you're not a demon, because you'd be committing crimes then. Would it be rude of me to ask _what _you are?"

"Nothing so fancy. Really, John, try to be rational for a moment. I'm only a failure. A botched experiment. Nothing else," the sleuth replied, with a self-deprecating grimace.

"You don't look like a failure to _me,_" his friend protested.

"Oh, but I am. The homo volans is still a pipe dream, despite all the care that they'd put into engineering me," Sherlock explained evenly.

"Maybe so, but I still don't like you talking about yourself like that," the doctor huffed.

John was defending him. Why was he? It made no sense. Sherlock only stated facts. Still, there was no fighting him. "Fine. I won't refer to myself that way," the sleuth agreed, with a sigh that said how stupid he found it. (And yet, this warmed his unacknowledged heart. But the thing needed to be beaten into submission.)

"Can I..." John whispered, with an aborted movement and his voice still full of wonder, "can I touch them?"

"Yes, but be gentle." They looked strong and sturdy, but were surprisingly delicate and sensitive, how the detective had learned as a child at his own expense.

"Yes, of course." It was the whisper of a touch, brushing against his outer quills with reverence, and Sherlock's wings unconsciously leaned into the caress. How long was it since the sleuth had his feathers playfully ruffled? Since before Mycroft and he drifted apart. Too long, it seemed, as he suddenly yearned for the touch to continue. All too soon, the doctor stopped. "Don't stop," Sherlock almost pleaded, but caught himself in time. He didn't want John to misunderstand, and it'd come out too breathy for him not to.

"I get why you hid them, but I was thinking...at least at home, would you consider freeing them sometimes? It can't be easy having them folded all the time. Doesn't it hurt your back?" the doctor queried.

"That's not all of your reasons, John," the sleuth countered. He could see as much. But what else could there be beyond John's compulsive caring?

"Oh fine. They're magnificent. I like them. Hiding them is a pity," John huffed.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He had never seen his wings like that. They were a defect. A malformation. Something to hide. Something he hadn't asked for, and would have done without if he could. "Really?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Now you're fishing for compliments. Yes, really. Of course. Don't you _see _them?" the doctor replied with a kind, teasing smile.

"Not like you," the sleuth countered truthfully. "But I'll be happy to leave them out in the open sometimes."

And he did. When they were alone, Sherlock loved to shed his clothes and stretch his wings all too often. John always looked at them with admiration, and it was almost as good as his praise of Sherlock's skills.

He never asked to touch them anymore, though. Pity. If sometimes Sherlock, stretching them carelessly, let his wings brush against his friend – it was an accident. Not a longing. At least, not in John's mind. And the doctor never seemed to mind that.

With time, Sherlock had stopped considering his wings like bothersome, useless appendages. John thought that they made him beautiful. Made him special. And he'd made certainly no move to have him captured and subjected to further experimentations since knowing about them. Not even after all the experiments Sherlock had run on him. Maybe John was right. He often saw what Sherlock missed. Not that the sleuth would ever admit it to him.


End file.
